


Burned

by acidpop25



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Destructive Relationship, F/M, Female Friendship, Founders fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:35:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidpop25/pseuds/acidpop25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We shouldn’t... I cannot do this,” Helga says, but her voice is nowhere near as steady as she wants it to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burned

Rowena is nowhere to be found in any of her habitual haunts within the half-completed castle or on the grounds, and asking Godric had been thoroughly useless, which meant there was only one person left who was liable to know where she had gotten to. Helga’s rooms, however, had been empty when Salazar checked, and so he had headed to the kitchen– her domain, which he generally avoided save to acquire food at odd hours of the night when it was sure to be abandoned.

It isn’t abandoned in the slightest when he walks in, though; he finds both objects of his search sitting at the small table in the middle of the room with a jug of mulled cider between them. He can smell something baking– something sweet, he thinks– and both of the women are clothed in plain, practical dresses that have been heavily smeared with flour. The powdery stuff is smudged on their skin and has found its way into their hair; it looks almost like snow, caught in Rowena’s dark tresses. Neither heard him enter, busy tittering at one another like excited birds as Rowena shakes her hair out, throwing puffs of flour into the air around them with a bright smile at Helga.

He has never seen her smile that way at anyone.

“You’ve let Rowena near the baking?” Salazar drawls, and they look up, turning as one to see him standing in the doorway. His tone is distinctly skeptical; Rowena is an unsurpassed witch and an extraordinary lady from very good family, but there are nonetheless some tasks best kept from her curious hands. Cooking has in the past proved to be one such thing.

“How else will she learn?” Helga replies. “Close the door, please, Salazar, you’re letting in a draught. Won’t you join us? The cider is still warm.”

“And the company, of course, is beautiful and charming,” Rowena adds, though it’s impossible to tell if she is being sincere or flirtatious. He pushes the door shut anyway, though, and sinks smoothly into the chair nearest to her. “Of course,” he drawls, and permits Helga to press a mug of cider into his hands. He sips at it; it is still warm, very warm, though not hot enough to burn, and it tastes of spices he cannot quite place, strange and exotic and more than likely brought back by Rowena from one of her journeys. It tastes good, in any event, and the warmth of the drink and the room is a pleasant reprieve from the winter’s chill.

“I knew there was a reason we keep you about, Helga,” Salazar says archly. “I suppose your upbringing was good for something after all.”

“Salazar,” Rowena says, rather sharply.

“The compliment, however backhanded it may have been, is appreciated,” Helga interjects calmly. “Now if you two would be so kind as to excuse me for a moment, the scones ought to be ready.”

* * *

“Rabbits!” Helga’s voice, and the sound of two pairs of feet walking in nearly perfect time down the hallway. “I told Godric I needed deer for the Yule feast, and what does he bring me?”

“Rabbits, evidently,” Rowena replies as they round the corner, and Salazar falls into step with them without bothering to ask permission to intrude, but neither seems bothered.

“Even he cannot possibly have mistaken them for deer,” Helga says, tone shading into sarcasm. “A great hunter, _indeed._ ” She pauses. “They are good rabbits, though,” she concedes– Helga, Salazar thinks scornfully, cannot even manage false anger without feeling guilty over it.

“Do you need help skinning them?” Rowena inquires, and Helga shakes her head. “Godric kindly offered to do so by way of penance for his failure,” she answers calmly, but something seems to sparkle in her eyes, a gleam of mischief that Salazar has never seen before.

Well, well.

* * *

It is late, but Helga is still awake, sitting by the hearth in her bedchamber and examining a parchment Godric had drawn up detailing his plans for his tower by the red-gold light of the flames, the only sound that of crackling wood.

Until, that is, the door swings open; Helga looks up with a start to see Salazar step inside and then shut the door behind him, watching her with those cold, calculating eyes of his.

“You might have knocked,” Helga chides.

“The likelihood of that is vanishingly small,” Salazar replies, settling himself just behind Helga and looking over her shoulder.

“You _ought_ to have knocked,” she amends. “I might have been–”

“What?” he interrupts, leaning closer, and Helga feels cool fingers against her neck as he brushes her hair aside. “What might you have been doing, Helga, that you would not want me to see?” His voice has dropped, low and close to her ear, and she is suddenly, acutely aware of how near to her he really is.

“I was just making a point.”

“Of course.” He’s close enough for her to feel the wash of his breath over her skin, now, and despite the warmth of the room, she shivers.

“Salazar...” Helga turns to look at him, and for a breathless moment she cannot believe she ever thought his gaze cold; it _burns_. “What are you doing?”

His fingers catch in the lacing of her dress, the other hand trailing down her neck, along her collarbones, teasing just below the edge of the fabric. “You know perfectly well.”

“We shouldn’t... I cannot do this,” Helga says, but her voice is nowhere near as steady as she wants it to be, and Salazar leans in closer, closer, until there is only a breath of space between them and Helga feels as if she cannot breathe anyway.

“You _want_ to,” Salazar murmurs, and his fingers pull loose the knot of the lacing. “You want it more than anything, right now. How long has it been, Helga, since you had a lover? How long since someone has pleasured you, since you cried a lover’s name into the night?”

“I... I have never...”

His lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile. “Is that so?”

Helga shrinks back slightly. “I’ve never... never lain with a man, no.”

There is a moment’s pause. “But with a woman?”

She flushes, cheeks turning bright pink under his scrutiny. “That isn’t the same, it doesn’t–”

“It matters,” Salazar says, “it _counts_. Everything does.” He catches her eyes and pulls the lacing loose with one deft movement, never blinking, never looking away as his hand slides over the smooth swell of her breasts. “Every _touch_.” His lips brush hers, just barely, just enough to make her breath catch. “You are not pure,” Salazar says, “so you may as well enjoy it.”

Helga’s eyes fall shut. “Be gentle,” she whispers, and Salazar smiles again, feral and unseen.

“I won’t be.”


End file.
